


Death by heartbreak: .1

by thequidditchpitch_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Post War, Romance, The Quidditch Pitch: Eternity, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-22
Updated: 2006-12-22
Packaged: 2018-10-27 13:32:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10810014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequidditchpitch_archivist/pseuds/thequidditchpitch_archivist
Summary: She didn't wake up that morning.





	Death by heartbreak: .1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

She didn't wake up that morning. And he knew why.

She had woken up every morning before that; he knew her routine perfectly. Every morning he was there; he stood in the door way, watching her, mesmerized.

Her alarm would go off at precisely 6:30am - exactly half an hour after he himself would get up. She would stretch, first lengthways, then to the left, then finally to the right. She would slip out of bed, and pull her hair back into a pony tail with the elastic that always sat on her bedside table. She would then move to pull the curtains open, and allow the sunlight to come flooding into her room. She would smile, stretch her arms above her head, and let out a happy sigh. Then, she turned to make her bed with utmost precision - not a single crease or crinkle was left in the sheets, and not a single corner of the blanket was left untucked. Her slippers would be slipped onto her feet, and she would make her way across the room to her bathroom; on some mornings, a small yawn would escape her lips, on others, she would glance over her shoulder and offer him a small smile as he stood in the doorway - one he always made sure to return. 

But he wouldn't be able to do that anymore.

Then, he would always watch the door shut, followed by the flush of a toilet seconds later. He would wait a few seconds until he heard the sound of running water, then follow her steps to the bathroom and open the door, just in time to be able to admire her body as she stripped down for her morning shower. His eyes would glide over her frame, starting with her ankles, moving up her calves, his imagination working overtime as his eyes reached her thighs. If she was particularly sneaky that morning, or feeling quite happy, she would manage a mischievous smile as she pulled her short nightgown up over her head in a manor that was so slow it was painful; not only for his eyes, his mind, his imagination, but painful for practically every inch of skin and body he could call his own. Yet it was fun to have such mischievous, mental pain inflicted.

He wouldn't be able to feel that pain anymore. 

When she stepped into the shower, he would watch as every inch of her disappeared behind frosted glass, and he would mourn the loss. As he crossed the bathroom to the vanity, he would keep his eyes firmly on the dark outline that was Hermione Granger's body. As his hands reached blindly for his toothbrush and the toothpaste, he would watch the outline of her arms and hands run the soap up and down her body; he watched her head tilt back to allow the steamy water run through her thick mass of frizz. It was the most rewarding moment of his morning, and possibly even his day, to be able to lean against the vanity and trace the outline of her body from a distance, knowing he would never tire of it.

Exactly ten minutes later, she would step out of the shower and wrap a large fluffy towel around her body, ending the most enjoyable moments of Ron's morning, and bringing him back to the reality that he had a life to live, and work to do, outside of admiring her and her body. It was the worst moment of his **entire** day. 

He would groan softly in protest as she began to run the towel up and down her body, removing all traces of water from her skin, and begin to pull on the clothes that were neatly set out the night before. The clothes that made the final cut - where his morning fantasies ended, and where real life began. 

Now, none of that would ever happen again. He would never be able to stand in the doorway and watch her wake up, or lean against the vanity and watch her shower. None of it. The only thing that would keep him going would be memories. Nothing more.

He had known it, the second her alarm went off and she hadn't moved - he had known something was wrong. Though perhaps he knew it before that, when he came to stand in her doorway at quarter past six, and noticed that her normally calm sleeping demeanor was disturbed by a troubled look. The arm that was usually laying across her stomach (if she slept on her back), or hanging slightly off the edge of the bed (if she slept on her stomach), was in neither of those positions; instead, it was bent and slightly above her head, the normally smooth sheet (even when she was sleeping) was grasped messily in her hand, which was grasped in what looked to be a painfully tight fist. He must have known something was wrong then. Her pillows were at the foot of her bed, and one was even on the floor several meters away; the blankets were twisted around her left leg like a rope around a captive. She wasn't breathing.

As he stood in the doorway of the now empty room five months later, he wasn't sure how he couldn't tell she wasn't alive the second he had stepped into the room. He should have noticed that the sounds of her soft breathing couldn't be heard alongside the soft chirping of birds outside her window - that he presence didn't fill the room like it normally did. He should have noticed that the room was about five degrees colder than it normally was on a Sunday morning. Why didn't he?

An hour after he had realized it - realized she wasn't alive, he was down the hall. His eyes were planted firmly on the doorway of their London apartment as person after person piled in. Some had self-inking quills and notepads, others had heavy suitcases, some cameras, some just their wands, and some had nothing at all. 

They walked upstairs, they were in her room, they were examining every inch of her and her room, trying to decipher her cause of death. But he already knew why she was dead. He knew it was all his fault.

_"Marry me, Hermione." He had been asking the question for days now, hoping to catch her off guard so she would say 'yes', instead of giving him another smart-ass answer like she always did._

_"What?"_

_"M-marry me. Please?"_

_"Ron, we're twenty-three...we're young." A different answer this time._

_"We're in love."_

_"_ **_We're_ ** _in love?"_

_"Don't you love me?"_

_"No...I mean, yes...I do, I love you, but..."_

_"Then what's the problem? We've known each other for years, we trust each other...blimey, Hermione, what's the problem here?"_

_"I want to get my life on track, Ron! I want to go to a college somewhere, I want to build up a strong career, I want to be financially stable-!"_

_"Money's the problem, is that it? Is that why you won't marry me?"_

_"No, money has nothing to do with-"_

_"Then what, Hermione? Give me one good reason why you won't marry me."_

_"Because I don't_ **_want_ ** _to marry you! I don't want to, so stop_ **_pushing_ ** _!"_

_"Why don't you_ **_want_ ** _to, Hermione?! We've known each other for years, we love each other, we've_ **_slept_ ** _together, over a dozen times!_ **_Why_ ** _can't we be married?" He wasn't upset or hurt anymore. He was confused. Angry._

_"We can't be married because we don't_ **_have_ ** _to be married!" She was shouting now. Practically screaming. "We love each other, we have sex, but just because we do those things doesn't mean we have to be married! We can love each other_ **_without_ ** _being married!"_

_Silence._

_"Is that how you feel, then?"_

_A confused stare._

_"We can love each other, we can have sex - we can do all that, without being married?"_

_More silence._

_"You don't want to be tied down, is that it? You don't want to have to be loyal to me, incase some other guy comes along and sweeps you off your feet with stronger love and better sex?"_

_"Ron...you're being ridiculous..."_

_"Or maybe, it's because I'm not smart enough for you? You want someone you can discuss books and literature and you're latest bloody find at that fucking laboratory of yours!? Someone you can-"_

_"That is_ **_enough_ ** _, Ronald!"_

_"No, I don't think it is, Hermione! I want a fucking_ **_REASON_ ** _! A_ **_PROPER_ ** _one!"_

_"I don't_ **_have_ ** _to give you a reason! Why can't you understand that I just don't want to marry you_ **_now_ ** _?" She chose that moment to storm from the room; he chose to follow._

_"What do you mean_ **_now_ ** _?"_

_"I mean I want to marry you_ **_later_ ** _in life!"_

_"But you said you never-"_

_"I never said I_ **_never_ ** _wanted to marry you, Ron! I said not_ **_now_ ** _." When she turned around, her glistening eyes were impossible to miss. His stomach dropped out of the bottom of his feet. "But now you've practically_ **_ruined_ ** _..._ **_ ANY _ ** _chance you_ **_ EVER _ ** _had of making me your wife!"_

Those were the last words he ever heard from her. The last he saw of her, alive and healthy, before she stormed up to her room and fell onto her bed in a mess of tears. Before she slept. Before she died. He broke her heart that night, and he knew it. It was all his fault. 

A broken heart. That's why she had died.


End file.
